TRADITION

It was Tevye, the father of five daughters, in the Broadway musical “Fiddler On The Roof” who clung so desperately to tradition.  Centuries of tradition that would leave the marriages of his daughters to the dubious wisdom of the village matchmaker, and it was those same traditions and faith that brought not only the family, but the entire community comfort and joyfulness in a life of uncertainty and imbalance as they struggled to survive on the bleak farmlands of early 20th century Russia.

While we of modern America don’t relate to the tradition of arranged marriages, nor to Tevye’s kind of living conditions, we understand tradition.  As newly married couples it’s tradition that we establish our own traditions; bit by bit, piece by piece all in the process of creating customs and beliefs for our own home.  You might say of tradition that it’s part of the marriage foundation whereby solidarity and familiar rituals are established for the children who will come; tradition making the home a secure place — certainly not rules and regulations to bring misery — but fences to establish boundaries.

Most modern traditions are a composite — not entirely new and not entirely old —  some from him and some from her, making a blend of all that was and is good.  The one constant about tradition, though, is what Tevye eventually learned and reluctantly accepted: tradition cannot be chiseled in stone because tradition changes.

In our early marriage, Ken and I divided the holiday traditions between both of our families.  We found ourselves combining generations of traditions until time brought those inevitable changes, eventually bringing Thanksgiving to our house.  Looking back there were happy times with family no matter where we spent a holiday.  Cousins were everywhere and our children never wanted for playmates, but it was the country home of my parents that was the most fun.

Our young boys established their own traditional game before dinner.  The little farm was filled with apple trees, but by November they were leafless with the fruit long gone, but underneath the trees lay forgotten apples browning among the autumn leaves.  Playing out-of-doors it wasn’t long before a slow-moving target was splattered with a rotten apple and the games were on, much to the annoyance of the moms cleaning the yuck from a target’s shirt.  Warnings and threats could not stop the fun.  However, as the years gathered into a combination of children growing up and the need for my aging parents to move closer to us, an end was brought to the rotten apple fight tradition.

Thoughtfully, most traditions are more significant than children’s play.  As Christians, it has always been our tradition to begin our meals with “grace,” or a blessing on the food.  It isn’t important that this special prayer have a specific title, it’s a pause for all who are present to ponder and be grateful, and for silence to descend for a moment or two, a time wherein we offer gratitude to our Heavenly Father for not only our life’s blessings, but for the bounteous harvest before us.  It has been our tradition that the head of the house, the patriarch for us, prepares the family, and the guests, for this brief spiritual time with a few words.  “Shhhhh,” is a sufficient attention getter for the children, but for the 20-plus adult guests at Thanksgiving, a word of welcome leads into the blessing of the food, which is assigned to one of the willing guests.

As Ken slowly ebbed away into AD, I would stand with him, even last year, coaching his welcome when he forgot the purpose of his words.  This year, however, his participation and even his understanding of the holidays were marked with confusion.  Whispering to my son, Keith, I asked if he would offer the blessing on the food.  Quietly, he suggested, “Why not ask Kevin to welcome everyone as the incoming patriarch?”  It was a good time, I thought, following tradition and passing the powerless baton onto our oldest son now that Ken was no longer capable.  Kevin could speak on behalf of his father.  With the buffet spread before us, we all stood for the brief formalities.  Suddenly, I found myself unprepared for the emotional tug of this transition, this changing of tradition.  As the prayer began, I felt my cheeks wet with tears.  My friend, Jayne, pulled me to her side.  Our youngest, Kenney, his own eyes welling, reached over and held me close, he too felt caught up in the emotion, yet accepting where time and disease has taken our family.

Like Tevye I see our traditions changing as life changes, but unlike Tevye and his people my family and I do not struggle for survival.  We have been blessed, even in these troubled economic times, with jobs and a measured amount of security.  Our struggle is to live each day caring for this good man ravaged by AD, and to do it with as much normalcy as possible.  Perhaps I’ll begin a new tradition and borrow the metaphorical “Fiddler,” placing him on our roof to help me in my constant struggle to continually strive for what is best for Ken and for me……………….  Listen………I do believe I can hear a fiddle being tuned.